The Everstone: Tournament Games
by BlindGhost
Summary: Harry Potter's fourth year at Hogwarts becomes very interesting, what with the Triwizard Tournament and Hogwarts' mysterious new guest.


Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for the Everstone, Red Valentine, and the armored woman in the wolf mask. Those three belong to me.

A/N: As I am aware of the tremendous following in the Harry Potter fandom, I did not write this work with the intention of offending anyone. If I have offended you, then you have my sincerest apologies. I am also aware that accuracy of many things might be called into question. I have read the books and seen the movies, but that was a long time ago and I am not interested in going through all that again. Because of that, I go to the Harry Potter Lexicon when I feel it is needed. All inaccuracies are my fault for not thoroughly investigating, and are most likely intended as plot devices. It is very likely I will not make corrections. If this offends, you have my sincerest apologies. This is the longest chapter I have written, and most likely will not write a chapter as long as this. If you get bored, then I thank you for reading and hope you find a story more your style. Thank you for reading.

* * *

 **The Everstone: Tournament Games Chapter 1**

 **August, 1986**

 _'Level Nine: Department of Mysteries.'_

The hollow, disembodied feminine voice of the elevator sounded through the empty hall as the cage landed. The doors leisurely rolled open when it stopped, and a person leisurely stepped out.

The person wore biker boots, denim pants, cotton T-shirt, a felt coat that reached the ankles, and silver sunglasses that reflected like mirrors. All black. It would have made a depressing ensemble if it weren't for the fact the person was nearly invisible in the barely lit hallway. From the person's near skintight clothing, the person's physique screamed 'Woman!' The clothing also screamed 'Muggle!'

The person moved almost silently down the hall, her boots making soft thuds with each step. In less than a minute, she reached the first room, and wasn't impressed.

'No security,' she thought as her eyes scanned the room, 'foolish.'

There were a multitude of doors along the wall of the circular room. None of them were numbered. It suggested that visitors would need a guide, and considering the amount of dust covering the floor, that service may have been a victim of budget cuts. But she didn't need a guide, she knew where she was headed.

The Department of Mysteries was a catacomb of interconnected rooms, with each room dedicated to the study of one subject or another, such as the room the woman currently found herself walking through. While the reception room was bare, this one had hundreds of hourglasses and clocks of varying size. There were other miscellaneous items that represented time. The endless cacophony of ticking and the torrent of pouring sand could quickly get on someone's nerves. But the woman found the room laughable, time held no meaning for her.

The next room didn't hold her interest either. It was all about the brain. In fact, there was a fairly large aquarium set into the wall that housed brains. They floated in the water like jellyfish. They even had tentacles and streamers like jellyfish, but where the bell of a jellyfish should be, there was a brain. A human brain, complete with all the wrinkles and ridges and even the pinkish-grey color. The only time that she was interested in the human brain was when it was coming out of someone's head.

Honestly, it would make more sense if they had been placed in a room that was dedicated to the study of magical creatures.

The redheaded woman strolled leisurely through the rooms. She wasn't pressed for time. She knew where her destination lay, which ultimately was not anywhere near the Department of Mysteries; this was just along the way.

But there was one room. A room that was hidden away off to the side, where the mysteries of mysteries were kept. A playful smirk appeared on the redhead's face as she stepped up to the lone pedestal in the room.

"There ya are," was her playful remark to what lay on the pedestal, "Everstone."

On the stone pedestal lay a gem. Almost spherical, the crystal stone glowed faintly with an inner fire, the color constantly shifting to whatever color imaginable. The stone's only distinguishing feature: a line carved down its face in the shape of a lightning bolt.

"How the hell didja get yerself in here, of all places?" the redhead asked the stone. Gently and with care, she picked the Everstone up from the pedestal. "Well, let's get goin', ya got people ta meet," and with that, the precious crystal stone disappeared into the redhead's coat pocket.

The route the redhead took to the room of mysterious mysteries was not the route she took to leave the Department of Mysteries. One room of fair interest held a symphony of whispers. A multitude of glass orbs lined aisles upon aisles of shelves. Each one held a ghostly image and a deathly voice. The things they uttered, only important if someone cared to listen. The redhead wasn't one of them, this was just along the way.

Before the redhead exited the room, her hand casually reached out and plucked an orb from one of the shelves. Like the Everstone, the glass orb disappeared into a coat pocket. As the door closed, the symphony of whispering fell silent.

Another room the redhead found a vague passing interest in was barren. It was a circular room, like the reception room. There was tiered seating around a large raised dias. On the dias was a white sheet draped over an arch taller than a man, definitely taller than her. As she crossed the dias, the redhead pulled the glass orb from her coat pocket and casually tossed it through the arch as she passed by. The sheet whispered and billowed at the orb's passing. The orb hissed as it passed through the arch, it disappeared, and its whisperings fell silent. And the redhead walked on without a care.

Honestly, she didn't know what message it held and didn't pay the whisperings any matter, because it didn't matter to her. But it would have mattered to someone. And now it mattered to no one.

There was only one room that the redhead took an interest in. The room was circular, like the others, but smaller. There was visible stonework that showed age. The room was old. Perfectly round circles were cut in the center of the ceiling and floor. Soft, white light emanated from the holes. Suspended in the light, in the center of the room, neither resting on the floor nor hanging from the ceiling, was a person.

On the person's face was a mask, black as obsidian, that bore a striking resemblance to a wolf. From the mask, long white hair past the person's shoulders created a wild mane that was similar to the redhead's wild look. Even the clothes the person wore were similar to the redhead's. Dark gray to black shadings. A long coat that wasn't as long, or as encompassing as the redhead's. But it was clear that this person, a woman from her body shape, wasn't from earth. The wolf like ears on her head, and the black wolf like tail from behind were evidence enough. Unlike the Redhead, the woman had armor. Sculpted, form fitting, translucent armor that hovered just under a centimeter from her clothes. There wasn't much, just enough pieces positioned precisely to ensure vital areas were covered while providing maximum mobility. The armor was too advanced for Earth technology. The last piece of evidence was the woman's mask, its eyes glowed an electric blue.

The redhead stared at the floating woman. To her it was almost as if staring into a mirror. She could tell that the floating woman was a being of power, like herself. She could also tell that while the floating woman was not 'awake,' she was definitely 'aware.' With mixed feelings of anticipation and anxiety, the redhead knew that she would meet the armored woman again, she only hoped that it would be far into the future.

The redhead resumed her wandering journey through the Department of Mysteries, and entered a room that seemed to be dedicated to artifacts. As she walked through, she ran a gloved finger along a stone sarcophagus, her power changing a minute detail, fixing an unnoticed flaw. The redhead walked on, humming a little tune to herself.

She walked through the silent reception room with all its doors, and through the silent and darkened hallway to the elevator. She stepped into the elevator with a playful smirk and thought to herself, 'Security's such a joke. I mean, anybody could just walk in, mess with stuff lyin' around, walk off with anythin', and nobody would notice a thing. Seriously, it could happen.'

The redhead pressed a button on the panel of the elevator, next to the elevator's open gate, and the same feminine, disembodied, hollow voice from before chimed.

 _'Leaving. Level Nine: Department of Mysteries. For. Atrium.'_

The elevator's gate slowly closed, the lift activated, and the redheaded woman was gone.

* * *

 **Unknown Day in 1990**

"Someone had better tell me what the bloody hell just happened or I'm going to start throwing people to the brains!" the Chief Unspeakable roared. His Underlings, er, Unspeakables were quaking, but he wasn't sure if it was his anger or the threat that caused their terror. It was an impressive threat, no one wanted to go near the tank of brains.

One Unspeakable took a step forward, either because he had more bravery than the rest, was an idiot, drew the short wand, or some combination of the above. Either way, he now had brain detail for the rest of the month, he just didn't know it yet.

"Th-Th-There w-was a-a-an e-explosion, Ch-Ch-Chief," his said in a gibbering voice.

"I bloody well know that, Gibbles!" the Chief screeched. It was true, there was an explosion, but now Unspeakable Gibbles was now on brain detail for the rest of the year. "I want to know what bloody exploded! Where it bloody exploded! Who was bloody obliterated! If anything is bloody missing! Or people will start finding themselves on brainwatch for the rest of the year with bloody Gibbles!"

Unspeakable Gibbles' face drained of color, his eyes rolled up, and he sank to the floor in a boneless heap.

The explosion was powerful, it shook the foundation of the Ministry of Magic. The Chief and his Unspeakables were in the Hall of Reception, no one went unscathed. That was mostly due to the fact that all of the items in the Department of Mysteries were not safely secured and nearly buried them all. Actually, the only thing that went unscathed was the aquarium of jellybrains.

It was Unspeakable Withers that took up where Gibbles left off. "It was in the Hall of Artifacts, Chief. That Saxon stone sarcophagus that was found in Wales? Unspeakable Lovegood was doing an experiment with a spell she crafted," the man tried to keep his voice calm while the Chief looked down at him with wide, twitching eyes. In fact, everyone in the room looked down at him. That was probably due to the fact that some item or another somehow removed his shins.

To say the Chief Unspeakable was upset was an understatement. He was huffing and wheezing and his face had turned an interesting shade of violet. The Chief took what he thought was a calming breath before he spoke. His Underli- erm, Unspeakables shivered when they thought he growled at them.

"Was anyone else bloody hurt? Was anything else bloody lost? Has anyone checked the bloody inventory list?" the Chief growled.

Unspeakable Withers again was the one who once again chose to speak, even if he didn't want to. If he still had his shins, he'd be shaking in his boots. This would probably be the only time Withers was thankful to be shinless. "We are bloody lucky it was only Unspeakable Lovegood," Withers spoke calmly, though his voice was almost unbearably high pitched, "but there is a problem with the inventory manifest."

The Chief's eye not only started twitching madly, but it seemed to start looking everywhere, giving the Unspeakables the creepy impression of Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye.

"Why is there a problem with the inventory manifest?" the Chief growled and hissed in an almost high pitched voice that somehow made his question sound demented.

This time, Unspeakable Withers' face went white, his eyes rolled up, and he fainted. Unlike Gibbles, Withers' shinless condition caused him to fall backward, his head bouncing off the floor with a hollow thud. He would have such a headache later, which would be compounded with having brainwatch for the rest of the year.

"Why is there a problem with the inventory manifest?!" the Chief screamed. There was an explosion of flatulence accompanied by tearing fabric, possibly in response to the Chief's scream.

Unspeakable Byrd, whose ears had been turned into the droopy, floppy ears of a hound dog by some sort of item, took up the slack. "The inventory manifest," she chirped, "hasn't been updated for years, maybe over a decade."

"WHAT?!"

 _Sproig!_

Now, no one escaped the falling avalanche of items in every room of the Department of Mysteries, not even the Chief Unspeakable. Whatever item that affected him caused a tree stalk to sprout out of his ear, complete with fluffy, green leaves. There was even a green leaf peeping out of his left nostril. So it wasn't all that surprising to see a tree stalk shoot out of the top of his head, green leaves shaking and shivering with the Chief's rage.

"The Department hasn't been bloody inventoried in years?" asked the Chief calmly, then he sneezed.

 _Sproig!_

The leaf peeping from the Chief's left nostril suddenly sprouted into a tree sprig. It was longer than the other two.

Unspeakable Byrd couldn't trust her voice not to chirp, so she shook her head. Her floppy ears flopping around wildly.

The Chief Unspeakable sighed, the air whistling around the stalk in his nose. He was not calm, not calm at all. "Fine," he started in a cold, grim voice, then coughed out a leaf, "no one goes home. No one goes to St. Mungo. No one takes a shower. No one goes to the restroom. No one uses magic. Not until we clean up the Department, fix the inventory, and find out what else is damaged. Does EVERYONE understand me?"

One of the other Unspeakables decided to speak, "If we can't use the restroom, and we can't use magic, what do we do when we need to go?"

"What do you think?!" the Chief exploded. "Hold it!"

With that, the Chief Unspeakable turned and stormed out of the room. All the Unspeakables left decided to keep silent. It was left unspoken about the leafy, green bush growing out of the back of the Chief's pants.

* * *

 **Three Weeks Later**

"What do you have to report?" the Chief Unspeakable asked Unspeakable Byrd after he coughed up a twig. He graduated from leaves to twigs just the week before.

"Everything," Unspeakable Byrd chirped, she calmed herself and started again. "Every room has been cleaned and inventoried."

"And?" the Chief prompted. He even gestured with his hand.

"And," Unspeakable Byrd continued, "everybody needs a bath." She scrunched up her nose in disgust.

Over the weeks since the incident, several Unspeakables have shown physical transformations. Like Unspeakable Byrd, along with her floppy ears, she now sports fuzz and a black nose. Her chirping is a completely unrelated issue. Unspeakable Withers' shins were still gone, but his work was still the same. Unspeakable Gibbles' gibbering gibberish caused him to resemble a gerbil.

The Chief himself had progressed in his tree-like state. He had over two dozen sprigs sprouting from his head. Both nostrils had sprigs, that caused a whistling noise that annoyed him to no end when he breathed. The bush that had sprouted from the seat of his pants had quadrupled in size, and no attempts made to groom it had been successful. And the Chief was growing a beard that looked suspiciously like tree moss.

There was a whistling sound as the Chief sighed his impatience.

"We were lucky with the explosion," Unspeakable Byrd rushed.

The Chief's eyes narrowed at that statement. "I wouldn't call an explosion that killed one of our own lucky," it was clear that the Chief was not pleased.

"That's the thing," Byrd replied, trying to keep herself calm, "it could have been so much worse."

"Explain."

Byrd steeled herself, there was no way to tell how the Chief would take what she had to tell, "The Unspeakables that first brought the sarcophagus in never checked it for magical booby traps because they thought it was muggle. Given its age, you can imagine the amount of degradation to the spell patterns there would be. The amount of faults and fractures throughout its network should have created enough instability to cause an explosion powerful enough to obliterate the entire Department and crumble the Ministry's foundations. As it is, we haven't any idea of why it didn't."

The Chief let that sink in, then whistled, "We are lucky. How did Unspeakable Lovegood miss that?"

"We all did," Byrd answered. "We assume she was going off the notes of the Unspeakables that brought it in."

The Chief growled, "There is protocol for that."

"We know, Chief," Byrd chirped, "but Lovegood had her daughter with her, we think she rushed protocol to show her daughter a new spell she crafted, but we don't really know. Some are speculating that the booby trap was undetectable, it would explain the original notes."

The Chief sighed, whistling again. Too many unknowns. "What about the inventory?"

Byrd hesitated, this was potentially worse than the explosion, and she had an inexplicable urge to pee on the Chief. "There is a prophecy sphere missing from the Hall of Prophecy," Byrd finally said in almost a hushed tone.

The Chief's bush rustled and his chair creaked as he leaned forward, he was intrigued. "What was it about?"

"We don't know," was Byrd's timid answer. At the Chief's glare she continued, "The prophecy was made over a century ago, and the notes of the Unspeakable who took it are sporadic at best. He didn't even record the name of the seer. There was a vague reference to the Room of Unknown."

The Chief jerked at that, "He didn't think it was important?"

Byrd shook her head. The Chief had the urge to use all the time turners in the Hall of Time so he could go back and beat the Unspeakable to death with the tree limb growing out of his ear. He was brought out of his thoughts by Unspeakable Byrd's voice, "I looked up his record but all I could find was his name, Henry Isaac Timothy Mark Edlewen, and he died when he was crushed by a tree."

The Chief blinked at that. What were the odds? He sighed in exasperation and continued on, "What was referenced in the Room of Unknown?" He had a sinking feeling of what it was and hoped he was wrong.

"The prophecy was connected to the lightning stone," Byrd's voice was hushed, "and it's gone."

The Chief launched out of his chair and unleashed a stream of profanity that had Byrd alternately blushing red and draining color as he stalked back and forth behind his desk. Suddenly, he rounded on Byrd, slamming his hands on his desk and snarling, "What about the First Room?!" The sudden change of topic threw the woman for a bit. "Well?!" the Chief nearly screamed.

"She's still there," was Byrd's quavering answer as she shrunk into her chair.

The Chief heaved a sigh as all the rage and worry and terror he felt left his body and left him drained. He plopped back into his chair and ignored the great rustling coming from his backside. Then he coughed up another twig. He stuck it in a pot filled with soil. Given his luck, it would probably grow.

Every Unspeakable was introduced to Serafina, as they called her, at some point in his or her career. There were many rumors among them about her, the most prevalent was that she was around during the time of Merlin.

"Good," the Chief spoke, "that's good."

"Why is that good, sir?" Byrd wondered.

The Chief sat forward a bit, "The lightning stone missing is terrible, but something that can be dealt with." Byrd nodded, she followed that but didn't know what the Chief was getting at, he continued, "If the woman that Merlin himself could not defeat ever gets loose, it would be an unmitigated disaster."

Well, the rumor was true, Serafina was around during the time of Merlin. Byrd slumped in her chair, "Is she Morgan Le Fay ?"

The Chief shook his head grimly, "No, this one, she utterly terrified him. The only reason she is in the First Room is because of sheer luck."

"Okay," Byrd sighed, that was a lot to take in, "what do we do about the lightning stone?"

"We be patient," the Chief shrugged, "it'll turn up eventually. It can be dealt with then. Anything else?"

Byrd nodded, "One more thing, sir." She pulled a slip of paper from her robes and placed it on the Chief's desk, then she slid it across to him.

The Chief picked the slip up and read the writing. He stared at it for a few minutes, reading and rereading it, then he looked at Byrd, "Is this true?"

The woman nodded vigorously, her floppy ears bouncing with the movement. The Chief pulled his wand, and transfigured the slip of paper into a bookmark. Then he reached down and pulled open a drawer. In the drawer were books, and the Chief selected his favorite. He opened the book to a page and placed the bookmark within, then he closed the book. He placed the book on his desk, then he slid it to Byrd.

"Get that to Director Bones," he said at last, "tell her that I enjoyed page eighty-six, that I found the bookmark to be interesting, and that I await her next recommendation."

* * *

 **October 31st, 1994: Evening**

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was teeming with excitement. Minutes earlier the large room had four long running tables, each signifying one of the four school houses. Now the tables were gone, and wooden bleachers were situated on either side of the Great Hall. The Head Table was still there on its raised platform.

The bleachers were mostly filled with students milling about. They talked excitedly amongst themselves, or looked around in interest, or looked bored. Those of Slytherin House mostly stuck to themselves, with self satisfied smirks as they looked down on their schoolmates, or snarled at their housemates that dared fraternize with the other houses.

An entire bloc of the bleachers had been taken by almost all of the visiting students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. The few that weren't with their schoolmates chatted with their new friends as everyone waited anxiously for the Goblet of Fire to name the Champions for the Triwizard Tournament.

One student, a fourth year by the name Harry James Potter, sat with his only two friends, Hermione Jean Granger and Ronald Bilius Weasley. Hermione seemed to wiggle in her seat, despite her perfect posture, with anxiety. Harry figured that represented his inner turmoil. Ron was tapping his feet, in a vaguely familiar pattern, with utter excitement. Complete polar opposite to Hermione.

"I know Headmaster Dumbledore put up an age line to protect the Goblet," Hermione started, catching Harry's attention, "but why do I get the feeling it isn't enough?"

Harry raised an eyebrow as he replied, "Like how I have a feeling something bad is going to happen?"

"Oh come off it," Ron broke in, not breaking the rhythm of his tapping feet, "you know Dumbledore's age line is perfect, not even Fred and George got through."

"We know," Harry deadpanned. "They tried three times. They're still laid up in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey is still screaming at them."

Fred and George Weasley, twins and pranksters extraordinaire, are Ron's older brothers. They had tried to cross Headmaster Dumbledore's age line ward, which was set up to admit only those students of age, three times. The first time, they grew beards that suspiciously resembled the Headmaster's. In fact, every student that grew a beard had the same style, even the girls. The second time they crossed the line, they aged eighty years, and they went bald. The third time they crossed the age line, which proved their insanity, seemed to zombify them. Madam Pomfrey screamed herself hoarse when they were brought in, then she charmed their pillows to scream at them in her voice so she wouldn't have to.

"All the Headmaster's age line means is someone of age can cross it," Hermione explained, "like an adult."

"Why would they?" Ron asked, he sounded very confused, he looked very confused. "It's only for students."

Hermione groaned as she pressed a hand to her face. He didn't seem to get it. It seemed like he didn't get a lot of things.

Harry focused more on Ron's tapping feet. Were they…? Yes, they were. Ron wasn't tapping his feet, he was tap dancing. Harry could recognize Riverdance when he heard it. His Aunt Petunia watched it whenever she wasn't watching her soaps.

"Ron?" Harry started. When his redheaded friend turned to him he asked, "Were you hit with another Imperius Curse?"

It was well known that when Professor Moody cast that Unforgivable Curse one the students in his class, Ron danced. He danced when the curse was released. He danced for hours afterward. He danced in his sleep. That prompted Dean Thomas, a dormmate of Harry and Ron, to cast a full body bind on the slumbering redhead. A jinx that was promptly forgotten about as Ron rolled out of bed and fell flat on his face the next morning. That didn't deter the youngest Weasley male, as he crawled like an inchworm all the way to the Great Hall. Nothing would keep him from his breakfast.

"No," Ron answered, he sounded very confused, he looked very confused.

"Then will you please stop tapping your feet?" Hermione voiced in a nearly pained tone.

"Yeah," Harry joined in, "I can only take so much Riverdance." Ron's face was becoming more confused by the second, as if Harry was speaking a foreign language.

Hermione snapped her fingers, " _That's_ what it is. Riverdance. That was driving me nuts trying to remember. Thanks Harry." Ron was whipping his head back and forth between Harry and Hermione in befuddlement, which was impressive since they were on either side of him.

"You're welcome, Hermione," Harry replied with a smile. Ron, apparently, had enough.

"Oy," he nearly exploded, his face almost as red as his hair, "I don't know what you two are bloody going on about, but I'm not tapping my feet or dancing in a river."

"Language, Ronald," Hermione scolded. Red-faced, Ron turned to her.

The redhead started to reply, "Ha-"

"Look down, Ron," Harry cut in. Ron looked down, at the seat. "At your feet," Harry corrected.

When Ron spied what his feet were still doing, a nearly perfect rendition of Riverdance apparently without his knowledge, he yelped in alarm, and jumped to his feet. In hindsight, that might not have been the best idea. As Ron got to his tap dancing feet, they danced right out from under him, each in an opposite direction. Without a leg to stand on, Ron went down hard, with a bang, with one leg out to each side, doing a perfect split. If Ron's yelp wasn't an attention grabber, his loud banging thump on the bleachers certainly was. Everyone in the Great Hall was looking at him.

Both Harry and Hermione gaped at Ron's predicament. Harry ran a hand through his black hair. "That must hurt," he commented.

His statement was promptly followed up by a ripping sound from beneath Ron's robes.

"Oh, my," Hermione gasped. Ron's trousers had just become a casualty of the splits.

"Eeeeeee," sounded weakly from Ron, possibly in reply.

"You alright there, Ron?" Harry asked, his brow scrunched up in concern.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeee," came a stronger sound.

"You will tell us if you are in pain?" Hermione asked, worrying her thumbnail between her teeth.

"EeeeEEeeeeEEee," came what sounded like a response.

"Well, we'll leave you to it," Harry patted Ron on his shoulder.

"EeeEEeeeeeE?" that almost sounded like a question.

"And thank you for stopping the Riverdance," Hermione patted Ron on his other shoulder. It was true, his feet were no longer tapping, though they were occasionally twitching.

"EeeeeeEEee," that seemed to be the only sound Ron was capable of at the moment.

The main doors to the Great Hall creaked open, and all the students turned to watch the entering procession in hushed silence. The first to enter the Great Hall was a slightly rotund man with a jovial expression on his face. The next to enter was a taller man who seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face, and while it really wasn't the same, the man's mustache reminded Harry of Adolf Hitler. The third to enter was a gaunt man, he wore thick winter clothing and a fur lined cloak. He also had long, stringy hair. The final two to enter the Great Hall, side by side, were an elderly man with a long, gray beard and garishly decorated robes whom everyone recognized as Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, and a woman who towered over the Headmaster.

Just before the doors of the Great Hall creaked closed, a sixth figure slipped in unnoticed by almost everyone save for a single student in the green and silver of Slytherin House. She brushed a few blond strands of hair behind her ear as she watched the figure out of the corner of her violet eyes. All she could really discern as the figure leaned against the wall in the shadows was the figure's wild red hair and interesting reflective eyewear.

As Headmaster Dumbledore and the really tall woman next to him who spoke in a heavy French accent made their way to the Goblet of Fire in the middle of the Great Hall, something in the bleachers caught the Headmaster's eye.

It was a student. And not just any student. It was the well known Ronald Weasley. The boy seemed perplexing to the Headmaster as he paused and looked at the fourth year Gryffindor. He wasn't sitting in his seat, he seemed to be sitting just in front of it. And the interesting combination of befuddlement and pain was oddly amusing. The boy's mouth was slightly open and stretched from ear to ear. He was also cross eyed. Another perplexing factor was that Ronald's two best friends, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, sat to either side of the boy and gave no indication that anything was wrong.

The Headmaster decided to address it, "Ah, young Mister Weasley, I just happened to be walking by, quite by chance mind you, and happened to look in your direction for no real reason and happened to notice that you may be in a spot of trouble, and quite by accident I happened to have a thought, which happened to be a question, a question that I quite reasonably think would apply to you." Here the Headmaster paused as everyone stared at him with expressions of bewilderment and confusion. Then he asked the question that seemed to be on his mind, "Do you require assistance?"

The only response he received from the redheaded fourth year was a wheezing and squeaky, "EEeeeEEe." Miss Granger's and Mister Potter's expressions pinched as they tried not to laugh.

"Hmm," the Headmaster hummed, contemplating that response, and took it as a negative, "I'm sure you have your reasons."

As Headmaster Dumbledore resumed his path to the Goblet of Fire, leaving a discombobulated tall woman in his wake, quiet giggling and snickering filled the silence.

When the garishly robed Dumbledore reached the Goblet of Fire, he turned and his eyes traveled over the gathered audience. The Headmaster opened his hands to either side in a welcoming gesture.

"Welcome," he started in an officious and yet kind tone, "friends, colleagues, ghosts, spirits," the Headmaster produced a bottle of wine from his robes, "returning students, new students! Welcome to Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

It was a good start to a good speech, though all the students were confused, even the visitors. The Hogwarts students have heard this speech before, at the Welcome Feast. The wine bottle was new, though.

"For you new students," the Headmaster continued, wine bottle still in hand, "you will learn of wonders beyond imagination-"

"Ah-hem!" coughed a stern looking woman with her black and silver hair in a severe bun at the Head Table, interrupting the Headmaster.

Dumbledore turned to the Head Table, "Yes, Minerva?"

"You are reciting the Welcome Speech, Albus," Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor and Transfiguration Professor, pointed out.

"Are you sure?" the Headmaster asked. He didn't sound confused, even if his expression was, and his eyes had a peculiar twinkle. The figure in the shadows smirked.

"Yes, Albus" Professor McGonagall replied, she almost sounded exasperated.

"Hmm," Dumbledore tilted his head in contemplation, "I believe you are correct." With that, the bottle of wine disappeared into the Headmaster's robes. It left many in the Great Hall to wonder why he had a wine bottle hidden in his robes in the first place. The Headmaster crossed his arms, the action seeming to fold his long, gray beard beneath them, as he seemed to think on what to do. He uncrossed his arms, only to cross them again, this time tapping his chin with a finger.

This was torturous.

The Headmaster uncrossed his arms again, and again crossed them. A blond Slytherin sat in his seat fuming, he would make sure his father heard of this.

"Ah!" Dumbledore exclaimed with an excited expression, and squared his shoulders. There were a couple of muffled snickers heard. It seemed that the Headmaster's arm crossing had accidentally put a knot in his lengthy beard. He started another speech.

"Another year, gone," once again, Headmaster Dumbledore used his officious yet kind tone. "I am proud, as you should be, of all your accomplishments of this past year…"

"Ah-hem!" Professor McGonagall attempted to interrupt the Headmaster's speech.

"As this last school year closes," Dumbledore continued right over the attempted interruption, "so opens a time where some of you will enter the rest of your lives…"

"Ah-Ah-hem!" the stern Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, clearly not pleased with being ignored.

"And the rest of you," the Headmaster rolled over that interruption as well, "will be completely swamped with homework-" By this time, some of the Hogwarts students were worried about their far off upcoming summer.

"Ah-hem! Ah-hem!" Professor McGonagall was trying, really trying, to get Albus's attention, but she was worried that if the Headmaster continued to ignore her any longer, her voice might give out.

"Yes, Minerva?" Dumbledore finally seemed to take notice. He turned to look at the stern professor at the Head Table over the flickering tongues of flame of the Goblet of Fire. "Have you caught a cold? Do you require the assistance of Madam Pomfrey? I have heard Severus brews a particularly stiff Pepper-Up."

The man in question, Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin, Potions Professor and Master Potioneer, sat closer to one end of the Head Table, away from Minerva McGonagall. The man had long, oily, black hair framing an angular, bony face. His piercing eyes, hook like nose, and ever present sneer gave him a countenance many considered creepy, including his colleagues. The one who didn't was Albus Dumbledore, who thought him cute. Currently, his eye was twitching, as he didn't want to think about that Pepper-Up potion that could make a person stiff.

"No, Albus," Minerva grimaced about that particular potion mention, "I merely wanted to mention that you are reciting the End of Year Speech."

"Are you certain of that?" the Headmaster asked curiously. Almost half of the Hogwarts nodded frantically in response, not that Dumbledore seemed to notice.

"Yes, Albus," Professor McGonagall sighed.

Dumbledore turned away from the Goblet of Fire. "Oh," the Headmaster dramatically started, "I must really memorize all these different, confusing speeches." There was a particular gleam in his twinkling eyes. The smirk worn by the shadowed figure turned into a full blown grin, Dumbledore knew exactly what he was doing.

"Perhaps, Headmaster, you should introduce our… _esteemed_ guests," Professor Snape spoke up, seeming to sneer without sneering. Harry had the distinct impression that the surly man meant that as an insult.

"Ah!" the Headmaster exclaimed. "What an excellent idea, Severus. I never would have thought of it myself." Severus inclined his head at Dumbledore. The Headmaster once again turned to the Great Hall and addressed his audience, "Friends, colleagues, students, guests, ghosts, spirits," he pulled a bottle of spirits from his garish robes, it was curiously different from the first bottle, and it was artistically decorated with socks, "it is my great pleasure to introduce our honored guests, as they happen to coincidentally be here."

Dumbledore walked around the Goblet of Fire to the slightly dazed and bewildered tall woman, and handed her the artistically sock decorated bottle of spirits, "The beautiful Mademoiselle Olympe Maxime, the Headmistress of the equally beautiful Beauxbatons Academy."

"Merci," Madam Maxime responded with a slight, graceful curtsy, though whether she was thanking the Headmaster for the introduction or the artistically sock decorated bottle of spirits she was holding at arm's' length and eying warily was anyone's guess.

The Headmaster turned to the lanky, gaunt man with stringy hair and covered in furs, and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Mademoiselle Maxime's counterpart, Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang. I was wondering, with all those furs, do you perhaps need any socks? I have many spare pairs I could lend."

Karkaroff looked at Dumbledore oddly, "No, thank you, Headmaster. I have enough already."

"Ah, well," Dumbledore sighed in response, "if you need any, I am happy to share. One can never have too many socks." He then moved to the tall, scowling man, "And here we have…"

"Adolf Hitler," Harry whispered to Hermione. His friend gave him a sidelong glance.

"…Bartimus Crouch, Senior…" Headmaster Dumbledore continued.

"Oh, please," Hermione whispered back to Harry, "everyone knows Hitler escaped to Brazil to become a transvestite." Harry goggled at her; if it wasn't for her completely earnest expression, he would have rolled off the bleachers, laughing hysterically.

"…Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation," Dumbledore finished Crouch's introduction. Then he posed the man a question, "With your expertise of language, I wonder if you would teach me the finer points of the language of Austrian Belly Dancing? I always seem to insult someone when I ask where they get their socks from." Many in the Great Hall started planning various ways to unhear what they just heard.

"That is not a language I am familiar with, Headmaster," Crouch replied, slightly horrified. 'Fortunately,' he thought to himself.

"Oh, that is unfortunate," Headmaster Dumbledore returned. Then he sighed, "I suppose I will have to practice more in my free time." He walked to the slightly rotund man and began the introduction, "And finally we have Ludovic Bagman." It was then Dumbledore paused to contemplate, then he turned to the aforementioned Bagman next to him and stated, "It is completely unlike me, as I seem to have forgotten what it is you do. I usually have wonderful recall."

"Head of the Department of Games and Sports, Headmaster" Bagman replied with a smile, though his tone was stiff.

"Oh, wonderful," the elder Headmaster beamed with complete sincerity, "congratulations on your promotion! I will have to invite you to my office later to celebrate with tea and lemon drops." There Dumbledore paused to consider, then asked, "I wonder, are there any games that reward socks as prizes?"

The bewildered Ludo Bagman had to answer, "No, I don't believe there are."

"I see," Dumbledore nodded sagely, "that will have to be rectified. I believe that it will be wildly popular." It was immediately apparent that it would be wildly popular with only Albus Dumbledore.

The aging Headmaster then walked back around the Goblet of Fire to address his audience again. "It is a great honor to introduce these four fine people, who coincidentally happened to walk into our Great Hall for some official reason I have yet to think of, as part of the judging panel, which just happens to include myself, for a prestigious event of international cooperation known as the Triwizard Tournament." There was inconsistent sporadic applause from the audience, more than a few trying to decipher what Dumbledore had said.

"It has been over two hundred years since the last tournament was held," the Headmaster continued, "and what many of you may not know, as it was a long time ago and not all that interesting, is that the Triwizard Tournament was discontinued when all but one of the participants were horrendously killed, the entire judging panel hideously mutilated, and over three dozen spectators gruesomely slaughtered."

There he paused to let that sink in. A few green tinged faces could be seen around the hall, especially from those who had entered their names. Some were hyperventilating.

"I am so glad I didn't enter my name," Harry muttered to Hermione, though his statement felt odd.

"All the participants from the two previous tournaments died before the second task," Hermione whispered back.

Harry adopted a sardonic grin, "That makes me feel much better about not entering my name."

"As I said, completely uninteresting," Dumbledore didn't seem to notice the astonished, and somewhat horrified, faces in his seemingly captive audience. "Hogwarts is honored to host the Triwizard Tournament despite my vicious protests…"

"You said bringing the tournament back would be good for Magical Britain," was the attempt from Ludo Bagman to correct Dumbledore.

"…Because of my dedicated campaigning to revive this most prestigious event," the Headmaster steamrolled right over the correction as if he hadn't said anything to the contrary.

Nearly a third of the students, both domestic and foreign, unconsciously shuddered at the mad twinkle in his eyes.

"And now," Dumbledore exclaimed, his hands rising in the air, "without further frivolous interruption, we shall begin the selection of the Triwizard Champions!"

There was applause, more applause than before. It was from anticipation. Anticipation of the Champions being selected, anticipation of finally leaving the Great Hall, anticipation of forgetting everything but the relevant part of the Champions selected, or some combination of the three.

Headmaster Dumbledore turned to the gleaming, fiery goblet on the pedestal at the center of the Great Hall. "Goblet of Fire," he intoned, "choose your Champions!"

The flames of the goblet bursting into inferno actually brought excitement to almost all in the Great Hall, except three. Harry felt dread. Hermione felt dread. Ron couldn't feel anything below his waist. Then a singed, smoking scrap of paper spat out of the goblet. It tumbled through the air until Dumbledore caught it.

"The Beauxbatons Champion is," he paused to read the name, "Fleur Delacour! You may wait in the atrium."

There was applause, the loudest yet as a tall, slim yet well endowed female student wearing Beauxbatons' customary blue dress robes stood and moved to the floor, her long platinum blond hair seeming to trail ethereally behind her. None of the applause was coming from the female students. What infuriated Hermione, as Miss Delacour walked toward the doors of the Great Hall, was the blond's body language and posture; as if everyone around her was beneath her. Hermione had a sudden, intense urge to force Miss Delacour to her knees and bury the blond's face between her legs.

'That will teach that blond bitch where her place really is!' Hermione blinked, then gave herself a mental shake, 'Where did that come from?'

"Miss Delacour has wondrous socks," Headmaster Dumbledore murmured to himself, though everyone in the Hall heard him. "I should ask where she gets them." The blond Beauxbatons student couldn't have left the Great Hall faster if she was a bird.

'You can run, bitch, but your sweet ass is mine.' The bushy haired girl's jaw almost dropped. Hermione was mortified.

The Goblet of Fire burst into inferno once again, drawing everyone's attention. Harry still felt dread. Hermione felt mortified by her heretofore unknown dirty mind. Ron was pretty glad that he didn't feel anything below his waist, because the alternative was pain and he didn't want to feel pain. Another smoldering, smoking scrap of parchment spewed forth and drifted listlessly into Headmaster Dumbledore's hand.

"The Durmstrang Champion is," he paused again to read the scrap, "Victor Krum! You may join Miss Delacour in the atrium."

The applause for the Bulgarian Quidditch star was greater than that of Miss Delacour. Polite and cheerful from the guys, and nearly the entire female contingent was ecstatic, except for one. Hermione Granger sat silently, she barely even noticed, she was trying not to think about an errant thought she had about what she would like to do with the French Champion's chest.

'Mr. Krum's expression," Headmaster Dumbledore muttered to himself, and yet everyone could hear him, "he must be surly because he forgot his socks. I do believe I have in my robes a spare pair I could lend." The Bulgarian Champion couldn't have flitted out of the Great Hall faster if he was a Quidditch snitch.

For the third time, the Goblet of Fire erupted in inferno, and most of the Hogwarts students held their breath. Harry felt his dread increasing. Hermione was thinking through her vast knowledge for memory spells. Ron was getting worried: what if he was stuck doing the splits? Would he be able to play Quidditch? How would he put on his pants? The Goblet hissed and spit, and blew out a sputtering bit of paper that rolled high into the air before twirling into the Headmaster's open hand.

"And the Hogwarts Champion is," he paused to unroll the smoking paper, "Cedric Diggory! You may join your compatriots in the atrium."

Most of the Hogwarts students erupted in applause, especially those of Hufflepuff. Harry breathed a sigh of relief as he politely clapped his hands. Hermione politely clapped along with Harry as her mind stalled. Ron was wondering if Fred and George would help him.

"I have heard Mr. Diggory has exceptional socks," the Headmaster's words were still heard by all in the Hall, "I wonder if he would lend me a pair to experiment on." The speed that Mr. Diggory achieved leaving the Hall had many wondering if he had a broomstick hidden in his pants.

The garishly robed Headmaster Dumbledore turned away from the Goblet of Fire to address the Hall again, "The Champions have been chosen, and therefore, a celebration is in order!" Cheering and whistling came from the audience of students, until Dumbledore caught their attention again, "However! However, as supper has already been served and everyone here has eaten, the celebration will be postponed until I most likely will have forgotten it."

The silence caused by stunned disbelief was deafening. But the Headmaster wasn't done yet, "Before we bring this evening to a close and send all of you to your common rooms for curfew, the first task of the Triwizard Tournament for our Champions will be the twenty-fourth of November. I believe that to be a Tuesday. I wonder if I should wear one green sock and one purple sock for the occasion. I do believe they will go with my striped underpants for that day."

Some students in the audience were decidedly green, and others were wondering if they could make a quick exit without being caught. Dumbledore opened his mouth to continue, "An-" That was as far as he got when the Goblet of Fire started to hiss and sputter and erupt into inferno again, drawing everyone's attention. The Headmaster turned to the Goblet, confusion covering his face.

Harry felt his blood chill as his dread increased dramatically. Hermione watched with growing certainty, but was hoping she was wrong. Ron would have been interested had he been paying attention, but he was trying to push himself out of the splits. The figure leaning in the shadows pushed off the wall, striding purposely toward the Goblet of Fire.

As before, the blond haired, violet eyed Slytherin named Daphne Greengrass, eyed the red haired figure. Wild red hair. Strange reflective eyewear. Black pants. Black shirt. Black boots. Black gloves. Black long coat. And the figure's body was clearly that of a woman. The ensemble closely matched what the blond had seen the muggleborn students wear on their free days.

It seemed that no one but Daphne had noticed the woman. As she strode to the Goblet, the redhead turned her head slightly, toward the blond girl, and smirked. Daphne's heart stuttered, suddenly feeling as if she were in the presence of a most dangerous predator. Despite the reflective eyewear obscuring her eyes, Daphne knew the redhead was looking at her.

The hissing from the Goblet turned to a whine, then it belched forth a fourth bit of smoldering parchment. It careened through the air, leaving a smoking trail in its wake, toward Headmaster Dumbledore. Confusion still evident in his face, the Headmaster lifted his hands to catch the charred paper. And just before the smoldering bit reached Dumbledore's hands, a black gloved hand snatched it from the air.

"I'll take that," a feminine, sultry voice broke the silence.

Everyone watched, with varying degrees of shock, as the newcomer, the redheaded woman, slowly stalked around the Goblet. She adeptly used the fingers of the hand holding the smoking paper to unfurl it.

"What is the meaning of this?" Bartimus Crouch nearly screamed, his tone carried a hint of anger.

"Don't know," the redheaded woman brushed him off, and deliberately misinterpreted his question, "all yer faces said this," she waved the charred piece of paper, "shouldn't've happened."

"How-" Crouch was set to rail at the redhead, but said redhead interrupted him.

"Now," the wild haired woman turned to Headmaster Dumbledore, "let's see whose name this is." The redhead held the paper in both hands as she peered at it. "Huh?" was the woman's first response. She tilted it one way, then tilted it the other. "What kinda idiot writes their name like an infant's spatter doodle?" the redhead muttered to herself, but the silence of the Great Hall ensured all could hear her, as she intended. She moved the bit of paper closer to her face, and seemed to squint at it. "Ah, I got it," was her next response to it. Then she lowered her arms, raised her head and announced to the Hall.

"Hairy Pooter!"


End file.
